Different Time, Different Place
by Joodiff
Summary: Frankie may have had a few drinks, but she knows exactly what she wants for her birthday. Actually getting it, however... B/F (sort of) with a touch of Grace. T for language. Complete. B'day present for Never Stop Believing in Love. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**December 5th 2014:** _Happy birthday to Never Stop Believing in Love!_ :) xx

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><p><strong>Different Time, Different Place<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p>"It's not going to happen," Boyd warns, and though his deep voice is uncharacteristically soft, she hears – quite distinctly – the edge of steel in the undertone. What he perhaps doesn't realise, and Frankie doesn't miss, is that his pupils are widely dilated. And she doesn't believe for a moment that it's just the low level of the lighting that's responsible. She ignores his words, doesn't remove her arms from around his neck. She simply gazes up at him, making her silence a clear challenge. He tilts his head a fraction to one side, studying her, but makes no other move. As they both continue to sway to the music, his hands remain resting lightly on her waist, but there's no tangible encouragement or rejection in his touch.<p>

She has the scent of him, a potent mix of expensive cologne and something far more natural, something profoundly male. It's more intoxicating than the red wine she's been drinking all evening, by far. But perhaps not quite as intoxicating as the remarkable heat of his skin against her bare arms where they rest against his neck. Before she utters a word, she already knows her voice is going to be husky. Emboldened by both the wine and his proximity, she dares to murmur, "I want you."

"Christ, Frankie…" he mutters in response, and she sees him swallow hard and briefly close his eyes.

It excites her, the elemental power she suddenly senses she has over him. And yes, maybe she has had rather more than just a glass or two too many, but Frankie knows exactly what she's doing. And exactly what she wants. And maybe, despite his words, the glass or two too many that _he's_ had may yet work to her advantage.

But the dangerous, wondrous moment of illicit possibilities is suddenly shattered as Spencer appears next to them with a cheerful and more than slightly inebriated, "Mind if I cut in, boss…?"

Within seconds, Frankie finds herself dancing with the wrong man, and Boyd has successfully escaped back to the safety of the bar. She can see him over Spencer's shoulder, despite the throng, and she can see he's talking to Grace again, his expression suddenly more open, less intense. A stray, unwelcome pang of jealousy makes her look away. She doesn't understand the nature of it, the mysterious, powerful connection that the two oldest members of the CCU's core operational team seem to share; isn't sure she really _wants_ to understand. Doubly so on her birthday.

The tempo of the music changes. A song Frankie doesn't recognise booms out across the crowded room – something much louder and faster – and it gives her the perfect excuse to break away from her new dance partner. After all, no-one, however drunk, would attempt to continue a slow dance to the pounding music now playing.

She heads for the bar, aware that Spencer is right behind her. There's no chance to eavesdrop on Boyd and Grace – the music and the general background noise level make it impossible – but she feels an irrational twinge of resentment as she sees Boyd throw back his head and laugh at whatever it is the older woman's telling him. He looks relaxed and cheerful, full of uncharacteristic good-humour. Ridiculously attractive. Frankie reaches them just as he finishes his drink, and she knows that despite his evident good mood it won't be long before he makes a determined bid for freedom. It took a considerable amount of alcohol, and a lot of intense pressure from all of them to drag him here from the restaurant in the first place. He was never going to stay long.

"Mel," Spencer shouts over the noise as their youngest colleague re-joins them. "Come and dance with me."

Mel genially waves him off, laughing as he attempts to catch hold of her waist. They've _all_ had rather too much to drink, it seems. Perhaps none of them will be entirely hangover-free in the morning.

"That's me done," Boyd announces, decisively putting his empty glass down on the bar.

Mel's reaction is a predictable groan. "Oh, come on, Boyd, it's still _early_…"

"I'm an old man, Mel," he tells her, but his momentary grin belies his words.

That grin. Oh, that wonderful, wicked grin. Frankie can't quite place the exact moment when that grin first scythed into her the way it does now, causing all sorts of inappropriate thoughts and feelings.

"He needs his beauty sleep," Grace deadpans with an impish wink before turning away to say something to Spencer.

"You'd better all make it to work on time tomorrow," Boyd warns them, but there's more than a touch of wry tolerance in his tone. There's absolutely no doubt that he knows exactly how hard they all work, just as he knows what a hard taskmaster he can be, and consequently he's not above cutting them some extra slack when he feels they've earned it. Unless something untoward happens overnight, it's highly unlikely that he'll feel the need to notice if they're not quite as prompt arriving in the morning as they should be. He leans over to speak to Grace, the words lost in the noise, then says his final goodbyes before donning his long topcoat and disappearing into the crowd. The urge to pursue him is strong, but Frankie knows there's no way she can do so, not with all their colleagues present and watching.

"Come on, Mel," Spencer wheedles as Grace heads in the general direction of the ladies' toilets. "Just one dance? You won't be disappointed – I keep telling you, I'm a dance-floor legend."

Mel seems to take pity on him. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Spence… All right, _one_ dance. Frankie, get the next round in…"

And abruptly they're gone, too, leaving her temporarily on her own at the bar. She knows it may be the best – the _only_ – chance she'll get to follow Boyd. Not caring about how severely her colleagues will later rebuke her for her sudden, unexpected disappearance from her own birthday celebrations, Frankie swiftly gathers her things and heads for the exit.

Outside, the night air is surprisingly chilly for the time of year, and after the smoky warmth of the club it jolts her into a sort of painful sobriety. One that makes her hesitate and reflect on the wisdom of her actions. The hypnotic spell of wine and unusual closeness broken, harsh reality starts to assert itself, bringing with it confusion and indecision. Damn the wretched man, and damn her own foolishness. She's not a silly teenager, after all, she's a professional woman in her mid-thirties and –

"Frankie," his voice says, startling her. She whirls round to face him, finds that he's standing in the shadows of a shop doorway, just yards from the club's entrance. There is no reason at all for him to be standing there, unless… Unless he knew. Unless he somehow _knew_ that she would follow him.

She takes an involuntary step towards him. "I thought you were going home?"

"Oh, I am," Boyd assures her with a nod. "Unlike Grace, I can't party well into the night, and still make it into work the next day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; not anymore."

Frankie can see the amused, self-deprecatory glint in his eyes. Taking another step, she says, "So why are you still…?"

A nonchalant shrug of broad shoulders. "A whim."

She wants him so much. It's stupid, it's wrong, and the rational part of her knows it's nothing more than a pointless fantasy, but –

Boyd moves so fast that she's barely aware of it until his hand is locked around her wrist, and suddenly he's tugging her into the shadows with him. A squeak of surprise escapes her, making him grin. The deep doorway is shabby, and it smells questionable at best. Frankie barely notices, not with the brickwork cold and unyielding against her back. Looking up at him, she can see a maelstrom of conflicting emotions in his eyes. Uncertainty, awkwardness, need. Curiosity, confusion, apprehension. All kinds of things. He's gripping her elbows, tight enough to prevent her from easily escaping, not tight enough to hurt. Her heart is beating very fast now, and breathing suddenly seems to require far more thought and effort than it should.

"It's not going to happen," he tells her again after a long tension-filled moment, his gaze intent. "Not because I'm not interested, not because it's too complicated, but because it would be a serious mistake."

Despite what Frankie can read in his eyes, the words are calm, unambiguous, and something about the way he's looking at her prevents her from even attempting to argue. He's only telling her what the sensible part of her already knows, after all. There are too many obstacles, too many reasons why it would be a very bad idea, however strong the mutual attraction might be. And she's certain it _is_ mutual. Frankie's sure she can feel it every time they're alone together, sure she can see it every time she catches him watching her with rapt fascination. Whatever else he is, or isn't, however, Peter Boyd is a man of unimpeachable professional integrity. Like it or not, it seems that by clumsily trying to force his hand she's unwittingly pushed him into a decision. There's so much she wants to say, but she knows trying to change his mind now would not only be humiliating, it would be utterly futile.

She looks down, not wanting to continue staring into those hypnotic dark eyes. A touch of childish obstinacy makes her say, "But I really like you."

"Frankie." He makes a warning of her name; firm, but not unkind.

What else can she do but acquiesce? It was always just a silly fiction, anyway. Nothing more than a stupid daydream. An inconvenient, inappropriate crush on a handsome and charismatic older man. One who's gruff but compassionate, and who unfailingly makes her laugh, however stressful the situation. She's not laughing now. It's difficult, but she dares to look up at him again. "Oh, it's okay… I understand. You're right; it would be a big mistake."

"Different time, different place…" he tells her, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air between them. Frankie knows what he's saying. If they'd met socially, instead of at work… If he wasn't her boss… If there weren't quite so many years between them…

She stares up at him, almost mesmerised by the way the shadows fall across his strong features, painting him in striking shades of light and dark. Deep, expressive eyes; perfectly-drawn mouth. When his hands fall to her hips, she dares to reach up, somehow not at all surprised when he turns into the touch, not just allowing it but welcoming it. His skin is warm, the bristle of his short, brindled beard much softer than she expects. It's a tiny moment. It might be the _only_ moment. Exquisite in its brevity and meaning. There's no need for words, for denial or explanation. Everything that needs to be said is in her fingertips as they map the contours of his cheek and jaw, in the absorbed way he watches her as she does so.

The sound of footsteps and laughter brings the fragile moment to an abrupt end, and they stand still and silent in the doorway as an attractive young couple walking hand-in-hand passes by without a glance. Frankie envies them, but only for a moment. There are plenty of dreams in the world that will never be anything more than dreams. Plenty of things that will never be. She looks up at Boyd again. "I should go back to the others."

"You should," he agrees, his solemnity perfectly-judged. "What's a birthday party without the birthday girl?"

"Just a party?" she offers with a rueful grin.

An expression she can't quite identify crosses his face. Something like regret, perhaps, as if he's suddenly far too aware of everything he's deliberately closed the door to tonight. It's the right choice for both of them, Frankie knows that, but she also thinks she knows exactly how he feels. Some temptations are very hard to resist, however absurd or dangerous the things they promise. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a subtle suggestion that it's time for him to step back.

"Frankie." The way he says it this time makes her look up at him again. It's a mistake. Or not. Boyd dips his head and his lips find hers with unerring precision. Her stomach muscles contract and an unexpected shockwave slams straight down her spine. Even if the brickwork wasn't still at her back, Frankie wouldn't be attempting to break away from him. As the kiss deepens, she reaches up and rakes her fingers through his hair. There isn't room in her consciousness for anything but the sensory feedback screaming in from every direction. No words, no questions, just a wild rush of different sensations – the warm pliability of his mouth, the gentle friction of his beard; the taste of him, the smell of him. His hands on her waist, his knee pressing between hers; the strength of him, the weight of him. The profound maleness of him.

It's over too quickly. Her heart is thumping in her chest, her lips feel bruised, and every nerve she possesses feels as if it's screaming out in desperate arousal.

Well, damnbloodyfuck. Who the hell knew the infuriating, contrary man could kiss like _that…_?

"Happy birthday," he says, his voice a soft dark growl that seems to reverberate right through her.

Life isn't fair. It just bloody isn't. Gathering herself physically, mentally and emotionally, Frankie manages an unsteady, "Thanks."

Boyd's hands drop away from her waist, and he steps back. "Go on, get back in there. Think of me sitting up 'til all hours wrestling with bloody paperwork while you're all happily drinking yourselves into a stupor."

"We will," she promises him gravely. Starting to turn away, she glances over her shoulder at him, "'Night, Boyd."

He half-raises a hand, a small salute. "_Don't_ be late for work in the morning."

Frankie doesn't look back again. Doesn't dare. Pushing her way back through the club door, she fancies she can still feel the ferocious heat of his body against hers. Can still feel his lips, his tongue; his taut, hungry insistence.

It's not going to happen. And that's absolutely the right thing. For them both. But… _damn_.

She meets Grace heading the other way, coat on, bag over her shoulder. She's suddenly very glad that the light levels are low, but her colleague still gives her a slightly bemused look as she says, "Frankie. We were wondering where on earth you'd got to."

"Just needed some air," she lies, hands buried deep in her jacket pockets. She doesn't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever; not to anyone. "You heading off, too?"

"I'm afraid so." Grace nods, then smiles as she adds, "Us poor old folk just can't keep up with the rest of you."

An unpleasant thought flickers unbidden through Frankie's mind. Maybe it _wasn't_ her Boyd was waiting outside for, after all… Maybe it was… But all those endless rumours are just that – unsubstantiated rumours and idle coffee-break gossip… aren't they?

"Happy birthday, Frankie," Grace says in parting, brushing a light kiss against Frankie's cheek. If she notices a lingering trace of Boyd's distinctive cologne there, she doesn't mention it.

_- the end -_


End file.
